The Language of Flowers
by Alydia Rackham
Summary: A decade has passed since Balder's death. Loki stalks the halls of Asgard-flippant, wicked and solitary, sowing disorder. When he is expelled from Thor's entourage, he unleashes a vengeance that nearly rips the court apart. In its wake, he flees to Midgard, where he discovers a young queen, an English garden, and the forgiving truth behind a forgotten language. Lokistone saga.
1. Marigold

_Many thanks to DarthxErik and Suzanne for being my sounding boards on this one. I dearly hope it interests all of you. 3_

_LLL_

_A decade has passed since Balder's death. Loki stalks the halls of Asgard—flippant, wicked and solitary, sowing chaos and disorder. When he is expelled from Thor's entourage, he unleashes a vengeance that nearly rips the court apart. In its wake, he flees to Midgard, where he discovers a young queen, an English garden, and the forgiving truth behind a forgotten language. _

_LLL_

"_The law of harvest is to reap_

_more than you sow._

_Sow an act, and you reap a habit._

_Sow a habit_

_And you reap a character._

_Sow a character_

_And you reap a destiny." _

_-James Allen_

_LLL_

_THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS_

_Alydia Rackham_

_LLL_

_CHAPTER ONE_

"_MARIGOLD"_

Long white fingers languidly wandered across the cold strings of a silver lute. The bright answering chord rang through the stone arches, echoing hollowly off the unyielding pillars and icy smooth floor far below.

The thin young man carelessly cradling this delicate instrument reclined upon the narrow stretch of a wooden beam that bridged the hallway. The beam had been hewn and placed a lifetime ago, to support an aging wall that threatened to crack. He rested his head back against the carven elbow of an obliging granite sentinel, letting his unkempt raven hair spill down over the statue's forearm. His own elbows rested on nothing but air, as the beam was narrow. He could feel every single bone in his back, shoulders and hips as he lay on the wood, facing the shadowed gray ceiling that curved twenty feet above him, one ankle crossed over the other. He could feel his ribs press against the underside of the lute, which lay across his chest. His white, angular face tilted as he studied the filtered afternoon light upon the smooth rock. His right hand diddled across the strings again.

Footsteps. Slow, deliberate ones, coming this way from below him to his left. He took a shallow breath.

"A youth walked out one day, one day

He met an aged man by the way

His head was bald, his beard was gray

His clothing made of the cold earth and clay

His clothing made of the cold earth and clay!"

His voice swelled with only a shadow of the pleasing tone he used to be famous for. Still, he carried the tune, making certain every word was clear.

"He said 'Old man, what man are you?

What country do you belong unto?'

'My name is Death, hast heard of me

All kings and princes bow down unto me

And you fair youth must come along with me.'"

The person walking slowed down, and the young man heard a sigh mingle with his own playing. He went on.

"'I'll give you gold, I'll give you pearls

I'll give you costly rich robes to wear

If you will spare me a little while

And give me time my life to amend

And give me time my life to amend.'"

Another sigh. A deep one, this time. The footsteps stopped as the person—a great, tall man—stopped just beneath.

"'I'll have no gold, I'll have no pearls

I want no costly rich robes to wear.

I cannot spare you a little while

Nor give you time your life to amend

Nor give you time your life to amend.'

In six month's time, this fair youth died

'Let this be put on my tombstone,' he cried.

'Here lies a poor distressed youth

All in his prime, he was snatched away

His clothing made of the cold earth and clay.'"

He finished with a flourish and lifted his hand straight up.

"Your lute is out of tune," Thor muttered from right below.

Loki rolled his eyes, picked up the lute, carelessly hung it out over the abyss and let it go.

It whispered as it tumbled, as if in muted cry.

_Clunk-clunk-! _

Thor's hands clattered against the wood and strings as he clumsily caught it. Loki grinned at the ceiling. A third sigh, low and labored.

"What are you doing up there?"

"Is there somewhere else I ought to be?" Loki asked, raising his eyebrows. "I'll admit, I've forgotten to check my schedule."

"Come down."

"No, thank you."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want to," Loki replied, casually folding his arms over his chest.

"Fine," Thor muttered. "I'm going to give this back to Mother, since you're obviously finished with it."

Loki ground his teeth, sat up, and slipped off the beam. Easy as a whisper, he slid down the side of the statue, catching his hands against the stone's sweeps and edges, to control his fall.

His bare feet slapped the floor as he landed and trotted forward a few steps. His loose black shirt fell askew in the process, its wide collar completely exposing his left shoulder.

Thor stood in the center of the corridor, wearing cotton and leather—suited for sparring—and draped across with a deep maroon throw cape. He watched Loki, the late light catching in his vivid blue eyes, and touching one half of his handsome, rugged face. He looked tired.

"You oughtn't wear that," Thor halfway gestured to him with the hand that wasn't holding the lute.

"What?" Loki asked innocently, calming his rough breathing.

"Those clothes," Thor said. "They haven't been washed in days—and you know that sight makes Mother unhappy."

"That _sight_," Loki repeated, sneering as he dipped his head forward. "Ah, well…" he glanced down at his left shoulder and the ugly, spidery black veins that crawled across his white skin. He drew himself up and lifted his chin. "I find they look rather dramatic. And I always enjoy a bit of good drama."

"Yes, I know you do," Thor resigned. Loki lifted an eyebrow.

"Which is more than I can say about your hair." He stepped closer, frowning. "Why did you cut it? And so unflatteringly-short at that?"

Thor ran his hand through his shorn golden hair, then dragged his fingers down through his beard.

"Mother prefers it. You ought to cut yours," Thor advised. Loki snorted.

"And…why would I willingly wear the mark of servitude and slavery?"

"Not slavery—not here!" Thor suddenly thundered, pointing at him. "But servitude, yes! Servitude and humility and loyalty to your mother and your king and your house."

"Loyalty?" Loki hissed, pressing close to Thor, his eyes blazing. "You need me to cut my hair to prove _that?"_

Thor stared back at him, piercing through him with a brilliant, lost and stormy gaze. Loki coolly lifted his chin again.

"I will take this, thank you." He reached out and grabbed the neck of the lute.

Thor snatched Loki with both savage hands—one hand around his upper arm, the other around his neck.

Loki went ramrod straight, jerking his head back. Thor clamped down hard, his grip shaking. He clenched his jaw, and pulled Loki closer, staring straight into him.

"How long, Loki?" Thor gritted. He shook him. Loki's bones rattled. Thor's fingers dug into his skin, and pain shot down through his scars.

"How long will you put Mother and Father through this? Why can you not…Why can you not…" Thor's voice broke, his grip weakened, and he ducked his head. Loki grinned widely, and chuckled.

"Why so somber, hm?" he mocked, taking a step back, and pulling out of Thor's slackened hold. "Tomorrow you'll have brave warriors vying to become part of your entourage—as members of your inner circle, so faithful! so concerned for your safety! have taken drastic measures to remove the careless, delinquent one amongst the company. Such loyalty. Such love." Loki placed a hand over his heart and canted his head as he watched Thor's eyebrows draw together, his breathing unsteady, and his eyes shine as he fixed on Loki still. Loki's grin broadened, and he swept his arm in a grand gesture, taking three steps back. "Rejoice, Mighty Thor! You are _alive_, and it looks as if you shall remain so." He bowed slightly at the waist, touched his fingertips to his forehead and then flicked that hand out in a small salute. "You're welcome for that, by the way."

Thor sucked in a breath, locked his jaw and swallowed. Loki straightened, turned on his heel and laid the lute across his shoulder, then strode away from Thor down the corridor, lazily whistling the morbid tune of the song he had been singing before.

LLLLL

"As I was walking all a a'lane

I spied twa corbies making mane

The tane untae the tither did say,

Whaur sail we gang and dine the day, O?

Whaur sail we gang and dine the day?"

"Don't you dare sing that revolting song around me." Lady Sif didn't lift her face from her work. She sat on a narrow couch in the low shade of a marble patio outlooking a small, lush garden. The breeze touched her loosed black hair and the edges of the skirt of her purple dress, and the vividly-colorful fabric that lay draped across her lap. Carefully she stitched a seam with golden thread, and never looked up—even when Loki jarred the strings of his lute with one hand and set it carelessly against the armrest of the couch with the other—it hit her elbow. She stiffly moved her elbow off the rest and kept stitching.

"Have a care what commands you let fly, and to whom, Lady Sif," he warned, coming around in front of her and giving her a pointed look. "This is my house. If I want to sing about crows ripping out a corpse's hair, I can if I like." He sat down on the stones in front of her and stretched out on his back, parallel with her couch. He glanced up—her pale face still tilted toward her work, her comely mouth only slightly tight. One black eyebrow delicately lifted as her needle glimmered.

"You may sing whatever you wish," she bit out. "But I don't have to listen."

Loki chuckled, pillowing his head in his hands.

"You must be madly in love with him."

"Ow!" Sif gasped. He glanced over at her—she stuck her thumb in her mouth, her wide black eyes flashing to his. He smiled.

"Obvious, is it not?" Loki lifted his eyebrows. "You're doing the queen's _mending." _ He gave her a look. "Exactly how desperate are you?"

"I am not—I'm not…" her face flushed red. "How dare you?!"

Loki laughed.

"Come on, why else would you have my mother's dress? She has seamstresses to do that." He reached out to finger the fabric. She jerked it away from his reach—uncovering a vibrant orange dress beneath.

"Ooh, what's that?" Loki sat up and pinched its hem.

"Stop it," Sif lashed out to pull it from him, but didn't tug hard. He held on, knowing she wouldn't rip it.

"Five gold pieces a yard, I imagine," Loki mused, studying it. He ran his fingers up and down the silken edge. "This is yours?"

"Let go," she ordered. He ignored her.

"Is this for the feast tonight?" he asked, glancing right up at her as she blushed. His nose wasn't far from hers. He narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice. "Are you nervous, Sif?"

"Why would I be nervous?" she snarled at him, taking a fistful of the fabric just above his hand.

"Lady Freya is taking the trial tomorrow," Loki reminded her. "Soon, she could be fighting right alongside you. And alongside Thor."

Sif's knuckles turned white.

"Freya is married to Tyr," she bit out.

Loki shrugged. Sif pulled on the dress. He didn't let go.

"Are you implying that Freya will be unfaithful to her husband?" Sif demanded.

Loki smiled crookedly, watching her face.

"I'm implying that Freya is beautiful," he answered, slowly sitting back. "And Thor has no wife to be faithful to."

He loosened his grip, and Sif furiously pulled the dress free.

"She can ride and shoot, but she's worthless with a sword," Sif shot back, smoothing the skirt. "Tyr, Gall and Danehall have far better chances. They are all diligent, valiant—fine warriors. I've seen them." Sif burned him with her gaze. "It _will _be one of them."

Loki chuckled again, grinning like a wolf. He climbed to his feet, bent down and kissed Sif roughly on the head. She shoved him. He gave way, turned and casually kicked her sewing basket. Its contents spilled out and he stepped over them without breaking stride.

"I wouldn't wear that dress if I were you," he called back to her. "That color looks ghastly with your hair."

LLLLL

"And on that bed there lies a knight

Lully-lullay, lully-lullay

Whose wounds do bleed both day and night

'The falcon hath borne my mate away...'

By the bedside there stands a stone

Lully-lullay, lully-lullay,

A leal maiden was sat thereon

'The falcon hath borne my mate away…'

With silver needle and silken thread,

Lully-lullay, lully-lullay,

She stems the wounds where they do bleed.

'The falcon hath borne my mate away.'"

Loki's lone voice echoed down the dim hallway. His bare feet made prints in the dust. He lengthened his strides and dragged his steps—he skated down the hall, leaving long swaths behind him. The torches did not light when he passed. They had died when _it_ happened, and had never revived.

Loki spun gracefully, slid to a halt, and paused in front of a singular door. A locked door. Locked and barred.

He stared at the beautiful details carved upon it—stared at it sideways, his breathing slowing to nothing. Silence filled him.

Half an age he stood there, waiting. Eyeing the seam between the double doors.

He waited.

Finally…

A trumpet sounded. Far overhead, in the utmost tower of the palace.

A long, lonesome set of trailing notes.

The herald stopped. The fragment of song echoed across Asgard, and down through the falls and the valleys. Every member of the kingdom drew to a halt at the sound of it, and called their memories back just a short decade—a hand's breadth of time. A yesterday of years. To a night of blood and venom.

Loki closed his eyes. The echoes faded.

"How long, indeed," he murmured.

He opened his eyes. Gazed at the door.

Snorted, and smirked.

Then, he wandered in a disjointed trail back the way he had come, purposefully mussing the dust as much as he could, and dirtying his feet and the hems of his trousers.

_To be continued…_

_Please review!_


	2. Scotch Thistle

_Thank you so much for your delightful reviews! I treasure each one. I hope you continue to enjoy!_

_Notes: 1) The songs in the previous chapter and this chapter are real songs, written long ago, and they can be found on John Fleagle's album "World's Bliss: Medieval Songs of Love and Death." It's on itunes if you want it! The song about the dragon, though, is from Beowulf. 2) Each chapter will be named after a flower—and the flower language symbolism will be scattered throughout the narrative. So keep watch! This includes trees! To see each plant's meaning, go to Google and type in "The Forgotten Language of Flowers" and go to the first result you see. It's quite fun._

_3) Yes, this IS part of my saga. Technically, it takes place in the midst of LOKI—right between part 1 and 2 of chapter 3, to be precise. _

_For the fifth section, I listened to the Thor 2 soundtrack: "Universe From Nothing," followed by the Maleficent Soundtrack: "Path of Destruction" followed by "The Christening."_

_Enjoy!_

_VVVVV_

_I shall go in to eye them feasting_

_In Aegir's banquet hall_

_And sprinkle the gods with spite and malice._

_Mingle bitterness with their mead._

_-The Flyting of Loki_

CHAPTER TWO

"SCOTCH THISTLE"

_Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!_

Three arrows sharply struck the center of the straw target a hundred paces hence. Twin red-headed archers standing by—Eldir and Hallace—cheered and clapped, as Gall, a lean, willowy man with curly blonde hair and bright, sky-blue eyes, lowered his illustrious golden bow and smiled in satisfaction at his perfect shots. The late afternoon sun shone bright down upon the green, and the men that stood before the targets still wore their rugged brown hunting clothing. It was early yet to be dressing for the feast.

A half-dead, low crab tree stood just behind them, and a ragged, black-clad, bony youth lay on his back in its branches, facing the sky. Gall ignored him, and turned and grinned at his companions, running a gloved hand through his curls.

"So—do you still wish to keep our wager?"

"You haven't finished yet!" Eldir reminded him.

"Ha," Gall chuckled. "You're young—but I _know_ you've heard the stories..."

"Just stories, though," Hallace winked. "Until we see it."

"_Maiden in the moor lay_

_In the moor lay,_

_Seven night fulle_

_Seven night fulle. _

_Maiden in the moor lay_

_In the moor lay,_

_Seven night fulle and a day."_

Loki's voice cut through the sunshine, shivering the branches above him, interrupting the laughter. Gall, Eldir and Hallace stopped, and frowned—Loki could feel it. He didn't look at them.

"What are _you _doing out here?" Gall demanded. "Besides being foul?"

Loki raised his eyebrows, then finally turned his head to the right to glance at them. The three men stood glaring at him—brilliant, cold blue gazes.

"Are you enjoying those new targets, my lords?" he asked. "Or shall I call for them to be removed?"

Gall scowled. Eldir and Hallace mirrored it.

"It doesn't matter if you do," Gall pointed out. "The king would soon rectify it. He's commanded that this green be open for the use of those competing in the trial tomorrow."

Loki chuckled and turned back toward the sky.

"I _will _be replacing you tomorrow, Loki. Nothing you do can stop that," Gall asserted.

The absence of royal address hung in the air.

Loki grinned at the dead twigs, folding his hands over his chest, feeling the tree sway gently beneath him in the breeze. He listened to its gentle creaking, absently counting his ribs with his fingertips. He didn't speak.

"Come, Gall," Hallace urged, touching Gall's elbow. "Come. Never mind him. I want to see this."

"So do I," Eldir added eagerly.

Gall stayed put, still eyeing Loki, for a long moment. Then, he turned his back on him, and slid a gleaming arrow from his quiver.

Loki turned his head, and studied Gall's tall, graceful form. Loki lifted his left hand, and slowly rubbed his fingers together, languidly humming under his breath.

Gall put the arrow to the string, lifted his strong arm, and drew the feathers back to his mouth. The bow creaked, almost as the dead branches had. Gall drew in a deep breath…

_SNAP._

The bow gave a terrible _crack_—splinters flew.

Pieces flew through the air. The string lashed Gall across the shoulder. The arrow tumbled loose. Gall yelped and jerked back…

And stared, eyes wide, at the flinders of his great golden bow strewn across the grass in front of him.

"What…What happened?" Hallace cried, staring.

"The bow broke!" Eldir said.

"I can see _that_," Hallace shot back, then turned to Gall. "Was it…Was it old?"

"It was…my father's…" Gall whispered, going completely white.

"Oh," Eldir nodded, stepping closer to Gall. "Well…Perhaps the wood just became too dry, after all this time. That once happened to a bow of my father's. It broke in his hands, just like this one."

Gall swallowed hard. Loki watched every move on his face.

"Here," Eldir stepped around, and held out his own bow with a smile. "You may use mine. It is new."

Gall stared at it as if it were a snake. A slow smile crept across Loki's lips.

"I…I cannot," Gall stammered. Eldir frowned.

"What? Why not? It's very fine, I promise. You shouldn't have trouble with it—"

"I cannot!" Gall burst out. Suddenly, he shoved past them, face ashen, and fled toward the palace at a run. Eldir and Hallace gaped after him, speechless.

And Loki smiled at the sky, his bones resting on the narrow branch—and lowered his left hand back down to rest where it had before.

LLLLL

Loki straddled a walnut branch and eased back to lean against the trunk. He folded his arms, ignoring the slightly-uncomfortable sensation of his vertebrae pressing against the wood. He glanced to his right, out over the three-walled, cobblestone courtyard in front of the stables. The air here always smelled of sweet hay, horse and leather. He cast a look across the way—and noted that the wide, black iron gate hung open, and through it he could see the rolling emerald hills of open country, and then the thick, dark woods beyond that. The sky was already beginning to deepen toward twilight.

Loud clattering issued from the stables, and Loki's attention came around to catch the sight of a broad bay stallion, clad in shining black hunting tack, led out by the bit by Danehall—a tall, brown-bearded, rugged man in black and silver garb. His squire—a short, skinny, tow-headed lad—came darting out carrying Danehall's gloves.

"Are you certain you want to go riding this late in the day, my lord?" the squire asked. "The feast will be starting in less than an hour—"

"Since when is it your business to mind my schedule?" Danehall demanded, snatching the gloves from him. "I go riding every night. And I'll be hanged if a party is going to interfere with that."

"Yes, my lord." The squire's face turned red and he backed up as Danehall swung up onto his towering steed. He settled back into his squeaking saddle and took up the reins…

Loki smiled to himself, and diddled his fingers—then laid his head sideways against the tree.

Danehall paused, and wrinkled his nose.

"That's an odd smell…" he mused.

Loki snapped his fingers.

Back beside the stables, a gate sprang open—

And a seething pack of Odin's hunting hounds—red, lean and blindingly-fast—bolted loose, and ran howling straight at Danehall's horse.

The horse shrieked and lunged forward. The squire scrambled back. Danehall's arms flung up—he barked out a shout—

The dogs snapped at the horse's flanks. The horse screamed and whirled around—kicked—plunged—

And whipped Danehall off its back. But his foot went through the stirrup.

CRACK.

Danehall wailed as his ankle snapped. He thudded to the cobbles—his foot came loose of the stirrup—

And his horse, pursued by ten relentless hounds, shot out of the courtyard and across the hills.

Loki watched the horse as it ran, far outstripping the hounds…

And diddled his fingers again.

The dogs slowed, as if they had heard something far away…

And trailed off, leaving the horse alone as it fled as fast as it could into the woods.

Danehall lay gasping on the cobbles, then rolled onto his side, grimaced, and gave a tight moan. The squire, yelping, dashed off to get help. Loki glanced up at the fading sky, smiled to himself, and closed his eyes.

LLLL

"_Eager the Hoard-ward searched the ground, the man to find thereby_

_Who while he slept had done him wrong, and hotly raging chased_

_Around the hill, but found no man in all the healthy waste_

_Delighting in the battle strife. Back to the cave he turned_

_To seek the hoard, and quickly found some man the way had learned_

_To that great wealth of gold; and hardly would he the Hoard-Ward stay—_

_So wroth was he—till evening came, athirst that men should pay_

_Dear for his drinking-cup with fire." _

Loki sang to himself as he traipsed barefooted down the lane in the gathering dark, watching the lamps come flickering on in the grand, towering wooden houses on either side of him. These were city houses, stacked close to each other, each carved with beautiful, ancient knots proclaiming the lineage of those who lived within. Loki's voice echoed up and down the deserted street, and out of the corner of his eye, he noted a few shutters slap shut in response. He grinned.

He trailed around one corner, then another, and finally arrived in a small courtyard where grew a thick, gnarled, ancient chestnut tree full flush with leaves. He stepped up to it, grasped a familiar branch and pulled himself into its arms, humming as he went. The leaves rattled with his passage, and rustled as he settled himself. He sighed and sat back against the trunk, glancing to his left through the foliage at the front of one of the finest houses in Asgard: the house of Tyr, and his wife Freya—the most beautiful woman in the realm. Their wide front windows hung open, letting in the cool evening breeze, and Loki could hear the husband and wife and servants bustling through the house—listened to their calls and commands—could see their shadows play across sills and walls as they prepared to leave for the feast in the palace. Loki took another easy breath.

"_Then when the day was spent_

_And glad was he, long in the cliff he would not hide, but went_

_All blazing forth and swift with flames._

_Like as beginning dread to all the folk—so soon it ended fatal to their head!"_

Freya came to the window—and leaned out, frowning. Loki's attention caught on her, and lingered. She had hair the color of fire, and it hung with wild beauty in ringlet curls down to her waist. She had the fairest skin, and the bluest eyes. She wore soft brown edged in gold, and gold jewelry sparkled at her neck and ears. He could see her, but she could not find him—not in this light. She frowned harder, and pulled the shutters closed. Loki smiled again. He glanced at the front door…

And snapped his fingers.

The lock flew into place, and bolted shut.

He took a breath, brought his hands up and rubbed them together. Heat bloomed between his palms. He closed his eyes, brought his hands up, and let a low, hot breath into the hollow.

The chimney burst.

Fire and brick shards shot into the air.

A blast like cannon fire rattled all the windows.

Freya screamed.

Loki lowered his hands.

"_Then spued the fiend out flames of fire and burned the dwellings fair,_

_Baneful to men the lightnings flashed; the loathed air-fiyer there_

_Would leave no living thing…" _Loki musically murmured, observing.

The house glowed from within. Heat rolled out from every chink. Neighbors flung their doors open and leaped over their thresholds, their eyes and mouths going wide.

Roaring shouts battered the inside of the house—Tyr, yelling for his wife. Freya answered with keening pleas. A servant—a dark-haired kitchen boy, came flying out a side window and crashed to the ground, all covered in pieces of shutter.

A strong shoulder slammed into the other side of the door.

Again.

Again.

The sturdy oak held. It never splintered, and hardly shook.

Tyr cursed—panicked.

Freya wailed.

Loki lifted his chin.

Snapped his fingers.

The bolt threw. The door flung open.

Tyr and Freya tumbled out, covered in soot, followed by the plump kitchen maid—she screamed at the top of her lungs. They all stumbled out to the front of their house and whirled to watch in horror as the brilliant flames ate up the entire first floor.

Loki lifted his hands…

And blew an icy breath through his fingers.

A frozen gust ripped down the street, tearing at everyone's clothes, stealing breath from each body—

And the next instant, the whole fire went out.

Darkness fell.

Tyr and Freya staggered.

Black embers sputtered and hissed. The great house stood silent and gutted.

For a long moment, no one spoke or moved.

Then, everyone raced forward, taking hold of the servants and Tyr and Freya, holding them tight and consoling them in one loud, bustling show of distress…

As Loki slipped down from his branch, landed lightly and strolled away into the night.

"_His warring and his deadly wrath_

_Were widely seen, and far_

_And near that scather of the Goths wronged them with hate and brought them low_

_And then ere break of day_

_Betook him to his hoard again in secret hall that lay."_

LLLLL

_Music_

The courtiers of Asgard, as well as the renowned soldiers, favored guards, the healers, tomorrow's contestants, the Warriors Three and Lady Sif, filtered into the great feasting hall much more quietly than they ever had before. A set of musicians played merry tunes on lutes and flutes in the corner, the long, colorful table was set with sparkling golden ware filled with breads, cheeses, wine and mead; and warm, buttery light flooded the massive chamber from floor to ceiling—but a pall lay upon the company, subduing their footsteps and voices, and quieting the rustle of their splendid robes.

They wandered in and cautiously bid good evening to each other—Danehall, scowling, limped as he walked and leaned on a cane, snapping at his wife whenever she reached out to touch his arm. Golden-headed Tyr, and Freya, both still looking pale and haggard, were instantly surrounded by friends who clasped their hands, put arms about their shoulders, and whispered kindly in their ears. Gall, wearing emerald, hung back, followed by his wife in dark blue, who watched him with bright, worried green eyes.

Fandral, Hogun and Volstaag greeted each contestant heartily, with eager handshakes and loud laughter—it made Sif wince. She backed away, lingering by a pillar, watching. She wore her dress battle clothes, her hair bound back. Her skin tingled. She folded her arms tight, and said nothing.

Gradually, the pall lifted a little, and all the guests began to talk more, laugh more, and draw closer to the table. The royal family, however, had not yet arrived. Their absence filled the chamber.

Everyone finally found his place at the table, and noisily seated himself. Fandral and Volstaag busied themselves with making raucous jokes amongst the contestants, slapping their backs, and urging them to try the new wine—soon, even Gall was chuckling, and Danehall, Tyr and Freya managed a smile or two.

The ends of the table still stood empty. The servants waited silently in the wings for a command.

The minutes turned into an hour, and conversation and carelessness built—people began eating the breads and cheeses, even though the king had not come in, and demanding more wine. The servants reluctantly began to answer their calls, and soon wine flowed freely, spilling onto hands and tablecloths and beards. Volstaag let out a long belch, and everyone burst out laughing, and the torches leaped at the sound.

Sif sat uncomfortably next to Hogun, eating nothing, her jaw tight as she watched everyone. Hogun didn't touch the food either. He scowled at Fandral and Volstaag as they bellowed and chortled, but didn't say anything.

A low breath of wind.

Cold.

It wafted in, at head-level, and wandered through the room. Sif frowned, and sat up. The torches flickered. She glanced at the others.

Nobody had noticed. They kept shouting to each other, constantly interrupting Volstaag as he tried to tell a story about a time he had killed a giant. Sif swallowed hard, her skin prickling again…

And her eyes fixed on the great, tall, golden double doors directly across from her. Her mind fell silent. Her breath stilled. All the noise in the banquet hall faded to the back of her focus, even as the torch flames faded and crouched down in their bowls. The shadows deepened. The air thickened.

Volstaag's voice grew weak—he trailed off, and his heavy brow wrinkled. He turned on his bench, his wine glass lifted…

Then…

Shadow.

Black shadow, like spilled venom, leaked underneath the door, and crawled across the white marble floor toward them.

Freya gasped and leaped to her feet, knocking her mead back over into the bread. Every man still halfway sober clambered to his feet, his eyes fixed. Sif jumped up too, and her hand flew to her belt—but she wore no sword. Her heart gave a hard bang.

The torches guttered. The shadow on the floor spread up the walls and swallowed the ceiling, ensnaring the pillars, engulfing the tapestries.

Smoke began seething through the crack between the doors, staining the gold and blackening the carving of Yggdrasil upon their faces. Darkness fell across the whole of the hall. Darkness—and cold. Chills raced down Sif's spine. She picked up a dining knife in her right hand.

_Thud_.

Without being touched, the great double doors gave way. With massive slowness and a restless groan, they swung open toward the company, blackness tumbling from their edges—and blackest midnight gaping beyond. A cloud rolled in, washing like a deathly wave across the marble, frothing up to the ankles of the courtiers. The men leaped back—the women yelped and jumped up on the benches.

The torches burst back to life, flaring with a wicked "_Aha!"—_and their flames turned to sparking, dancing green. They cast a stark and haunting light across every figure and the entire table, crackling and cackling like witches around a cauldron.

An evil hiss, as if from the depths of the earth, skittered past their boots—followed by the rankling sound of massive chains clanking and sliding across wet, rugged stones.

The smoky shadow now covered the floor like a pool, its edges unsettled and simmering. It rippled around the door, as if a stone had been thrown into its midst…

And then the shadow swirled, leaping up to form a pillar—man-high.

The torch flames yearned toward it—the air pulled to it. The pillar formed, it hardened…

The shadow melted off.

It drained and dripped down from the figure that stood revealed beneath.

Long, crisp, raven hair—strands like the feathers of a crow. A face pale as a winter morning—stunning, handsome, sharp and hard. Raven eyebrows, cultured features, a soft and delicate mouth. Eyes that literally blazed emerald—luminescent as a cat's when a light is shined upon them. Black enfolded his lean figure, hugging his waist, flaring sharply at his shoulders, and draping in jagged skirts around his legs. The torchlight caught the smooth, multi-faceted texture of his armor, flashing light back in sinister winks and sparks.

Scales.

Snakeskin.

It clothed him from throat to wrists to ankles, fitting him as if it were part of his own thin, knife-like body. He strode forward with silent, deliberate ease, the shadow swimming around his knees.

An elegantly shredded cape slithered along through the fog behind him, and more tatters dripped from his elbows and forearms. A subtle smile played across his gentle mouth, his eyes glowing as his terrifying glance swept across the company. His gaze fell upon the household servants—

Who promptly let go of their trays and tumbled to their knees, bowing their heads. The trays smashed to the floor.

Prince Loki lifted his white head and raised a curious eyebrow, studying the faces of those at the table as he drew toward the head of it.

"You see," he said—as if he was already in the midst of a conversation. "I find it so interesting that the guests of my house feel free to eat, drink and indulge themselves in all kinds of gluttony and merriment whilst remaining in the obvious absence of their hosts and hostess."

His voice purred and thrummed, striking everyone straight in the breastbone. Sif's knuckles turned white as she gripped the knife.

Loki grinned at them, and laughed softly, then swung in front of the king's chair and sat down in it.

"Please, do be seated," he said, gesturing broadly in invitation.

"That…is His Majesty's chair," Hogun said stiffly, looking at Loki out of the corner of his eye.

"Ah, yes, I did realize that, thank you, Hogun," Loki nodded to him, his eyes burning brighter. He cocked his head. "Suddenly so concerned about a member of the royal house being usurped by one of a lesser station." Loki put a white hand to his heart. "Your loyalty touches me. Truly."

Hogun turned away. Loki's eyes narrowed, and he sat back in the throne, laying his hands on the rests. He ran his deadly gaze up and down the rows of courtiers, then lifted his chin.

"I told you to sit."

Sif's gut tightened—but she found herself bending her knees, and sinking back down onto the bench. Very slowly, without a word, all of the others did the same, their attention never wavering from the serpentine figure at the head.

Loki raised a hand, and beckoned.

"Come, bring out the food," he ordered. "We can't have our guests sitting here hungry. Set by enough for the king and queen and my brother."

"Yes, Your Highness," the nearest servant replied, and they darted off to the kitchens.

"Wine, sire?" another dared to ask, dipping near him.

"Yes, thank you Haelfdane," Loki glanced up and smiled at him, then held out his goblet. Haelfdane avoided Loki's gaze, but managed not to shake too badly as he poured dark red wine into his glass. When he withdrew, Loki frowned down into it, swirled it, and took a sip. He didn't speak. Nobody else breathed.

In a few minutes, the servants hauled out platters of boar, pheasant and goose, along with roasted carrots, potatoes and onions. Rich, delicious scents filled the room, but Sif's stomach turned. The servants set the platters out, and quickly carved the meat…

But no one reached out to take any of it. They stared at the food, then at Loki, then back at the food.

Loki set down his goblet, and folded his hands.

"Why are you not eating?" he asked.

"We don't dare."

Gall's voice, quiet and stilted, came from the other side of Volstaag. Loki sat up, and his brow furrowed.

"What was that?" he called.

"We don't dare," Gall repeated, just a little louder, frowning hard at the table in front of him. "We do not trust this food."

"Whyever not?" Loki wondered, leaning forward.

"It wouldn't be the first time you used deceit and trickery to pull some foul or murderous prank," Gall gritted.

"Ah," Loki sat back and picked up his wine again. "Says one of the greatest deceivers in the realm." He raised his glass to him, and took a drink. Gall's eyes flashed, and he turned to Loki.

"What did you say?"

"I'm sorry—are you deaf?" Loki asked frankly. Gall's face flushed.

"I heard you," he snapped. "I demand to know what you mean."

"You want me to say it," Loki raised his eyebrows.

"I do," Gall ordered.

"I mean that for all these long years, you have been using a bow belonging to your father—a golden bow that was enchanted by a witch in the mountains, a witch your father then _killed_ so that no one would ever tell his secret," Loki said, delicately cradling his goblet within the fingers of both hands. He pinned Gall with his fiery gaze. "He passed it on to you, and _you _never spoke the truth, either: how the bow, once drawn back, will _never _miss the target upon which the bearer's eye falls. You have used it your whole life to fool all of Asgard into believing that you are the greatest archer in the land." Loki shook his head. "But without it, I doubt you could hit the broad side of the stable wall at twenty paces. And frankly," he leaned his head back against the throne and considered the ceiling. "I am _astonished _at the negligence of the warriors of this kingdom. An elementary student of magic could have sensed that cheating spell in a heartbeat. Makes me wonder who you had to bribe to keep them quiet…"

"How dare you accuse me?" Gall spat. Loki looked at him.

"Is it untrue?"

"I—"

"Tell me now if it isn't so," Loki cut in. "In fact, Fandral can fetch you his bow and his finest arrows, and we can settle this matter right here, in this very hall."

Gall turned white. His wife leaped to her feet, her face turning red.

"You are a meddler, and a troublemaker!" she pointed at Loki. "What…What harm was done by my husband, if he did keep this secret?"

"Oh, no harm must be done for a deceit to be uncovered, dear Idunn," Loki soothed. "A deceit in itself must be rooted out, no matter the reason, no matter the consequence."

"It cannot be carried that far!" she shouted, fury shaking her slight form. "Not at the cost of life or dignity!"

"Oh, no?" Loki said. "I wonder if your husband would agree. In fact, I know he does not."

Idunn's eyes flickered. Loki lowered his gaze to Gall.

"You recall, do you not, the winter foot race when we were young?"

Gall, sick and captivated, only swallowed. Loki set his goblet down, and slowly pushed it forward with his fingertips. He watched the goblet's progress as it whispered over the tablecloth.

"You suspected that the boy Fenris, who had been playing with you and the other children all winter, was actually myself, enchanted to look like another. And so you arranged it so that I would run afoul of a slippery path as we chased through the streets, and I would fall onto the thin ice of the river, break through and submerge."

Loki lifted only his eyes—pinned Gall where he sat.

"And I did just as you hoped. My spell was broken—you saw me then for who I was. And if it had not been for my brother, I would have drowned. As it was, you nearly cost Asgard two of her royal sons." Loki closed his hand into a fist. "So you can take your own broken enchantment and chew it until your gums bleed."

Idunn covered her mouth with her hands and stared down at her husband. Gall clamped his fists on the tabletop. Danehall slapped a hand down on Gall's shoulder, and bared his teeth at Loki.

"Seven hundred years, you were quiet about that," Danehall snarled. "Seven hundred years passed behind us, and you choose _today _to splinter his bow?"

Loki smiled at him.

"There can be no mistake as to why!" Danehall realized. "Gall was to compete tomorrow, to perhaps take your place amongst Thor's company—and you would rather see him humiliated!"

"Ah, yes, the truth can be inconvenient, can it not?" Loki sighed.

"And it is not just he!" Danehall cried. "I noticed a queer smell when I started out to ride, and then it was as if evil spirits possessed the hounds—they came after my horse and I was thrown—I broke the bones in my leg!"

Loki said nothing. His smile remained. The court rustled anxiously.

"You did this!" Danehall shouted, his face scarlet, his voice booming. He stood up, striking his knees on the table, and staggered, catching himself on Gall's shoulder. "You sabotaged me and lost me my horse!"

"And you shall never ride again, not for as long as you live, Danehall, son of Harindale," Loki hissed. "Every time you set that foot in a stirrup your bone will break, just as it is broken now—and the anguish of a thousand breaks will plague your entire body." Loki rose from his seat, lowering his head, fixing dreadfully on Danehall. "Such a curse shall follow the man who once chased me as I fled through the woods—he on horseback and wielding a flail. Do you not remember, Danehall? Do you not remember shouting insults at me, mocking me as I was nearly trampled by your horse—striking me so that I fell into a thicket so filled with thorns that my skin and clothes shredded before I was able to escape? And your lady Skadi laughed as you did it, and praised you from up on the hill." Loki pointed at the woman beside Danehall, who cowered. All the courtiers murmured.

"Do not address my wife, you filthy snake!" Danehall barked. "You cannot dodge around your deeds today! Your _pride _is the cause of all this! Your insatiable need to be the favored son, the darling of Asgard, the center of all honor and glory?" Danehall took up his goblet and threw it. It crashed onto the table in front of Loki and spilled. Loki didn't move.

"You burned Tyr's house as well, didn't you?" Danehall realized. "You set fire to it while he and his household were still inside!"

"Ah, yes, didn't that look pretty?" Loki smiled and folded his arms.

The court cried out, their faces flushing, their eyes widening.

"I knew it!" Tyr roared, slamming his hands down on the table and standing up. "I knew it was you when Freya said she thought she heard your devilish singing outside!"

"And how does it feel, son of Anthorn?" Loki lashed out. "To be trapped in one's own chambers while flame engulfs your walls? Did you relish the thought that you might not get out—that you might be devoured right there by those blistering tongues? Did you enjoy it?"

"You dragon spawn—" Tyr cried.

"No?" Loki canted his head. "Then why would you imagine I would?"

Tyr balked. Danehall's head whipped around.

"Let me refresh your memory, then," Loki said, and easily hopped up onto the table. He stepped gracefully down the center, planting his feet to knock goblets of wine into the laps of the courtiers—they sprang up and back, away from him. Sif pulled all the way away, until her back hit the wall.

The black fog trailed after Loki, right along with his scaly cape, seething across the food. Loki paid no heed to anyone but Tyr and Freya, who stood their ground at the far end.

"A week before my coming-of-age, you thought it would be amusing to test a fire trail spell in my chambers." Loki batted a centerpiece out of his way—it crashed to the tabletop. The vase broke. Branches of wild licorice scattered onto the floor. "As soon as I crossed my threshold and shut the door, my carpet, and then my wall, caught fire. My only choice was to leap from my balcony—or put out the fire myself." Loki paused, towering over them, the fog spilling off the edges of the table like water. "Luckily, I had learned the counter curse a week before—and the fire only cost me three of my mother's books, instead of my life." Loki flashed his eyebrows at Tyr. "Of course, I knew why you did it. You were madly in love with this one," he pointed at Freya, who hid behind her husband. "And you never forgot what I accidentally did to her." Loki's eyes narrowed again, at her this time. "To this pretty, innocent little weakling, who made far more of that burn on her head than it ever warranted."

"Do _not _speak to my wife, you coward!" Tyr roared.

"Coward!" Loki crowed—and the green torches exploded to frantic heights. Sparks cracked across the table, and the spilled wine caught fire, shrieking with emerald tongues of light, cascading down with the fog. Loki's eyes lost their pupils to burning iridescence, and flames licked his fingertips. Everyone threw himself backward, yelping in horror. He spoke, and the walls shook.

"I spared you from the wrath of the king—I told no one what you'd done. I held my vengeance, watching to see what you would become. But when you stood beside and mocked me as the venom ate my flesh, I vowed I would kill you, you sons of dogs. Coward?" He squeezed his fists. They burst into flame. "Come closer and we will see!"

_To be continued…_

_Please review!_


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